


all yearning and all tenderness

by blood bag boogie (evil_bunny_king), evil_bunny_king



Series: The Ember Days [4]
Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Long summer nights, M/M, Opera and late night conversations over tea, helpless adoring kisses, love and loss and hope, poetry (Pushkin) (a lot of it) (Nathaniel sir), story telling, these two are just!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-15 20:34:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28944504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/blood%20bag%20boogie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_bunny_king/pseuds/evil_bunny_king
Summary: Italian opera, russian poetry and warm Ukrainian nights. Nate falls in love.
Relationships: Male Detective/Nathaniel "Nate" Sewell
Series: The Ember Days [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1936339
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32
Collections: The Ember Days





	1. Chapter 1

_Odessa, 1843_

_-_

_Даниил,_ he had introduced himself, in the thick haze of the theatre’s tallow candles, and how odd he was, Tobias had thought, with his european dress and indistinguishable accent, folding himself into a corner of a cramped balcony for Italian Opera.

This _Daniel_ had smiled at him, too tall to stand upright. He’d leant on the balcony rail, cavalier, dark hair worn long and curling against his cheeks in the heat and although he’d spoken to him in the local tongue Tobias had answered him in his own, distracted by the noise and the crowd (or at least that’s what he’d told himself).

 _Tobias_ , he’d said, in french. And then, in the same breath: _Tobi._

 _Daniel_ had smiled again, broad and slow, the glitter of the candlelight in his hazel eyes. _A pleasure,_ he’d returned, also in french. Tobias was struck once more by his lack of discernible accent, the way he paused before he said, _Tobi_ _You can call me Nate._

From the start of their acquaintance, a contradiction. _Даниил?_ he'd asked, in his poorly accented russian this time, “или…”

He cannot find the equivalent for it. He gives up with a tentative ‘нат?’ and this Daniel that goes by Nate had grinned, a glint in the dark as the first singers had appeared from the wings.

_Whichever you see fit._

The orchestra had struck a haphazard note, more actors filling the stage and then they were drawn into the opening act, elbow to elbow, flank to flank, the nudge of his shoulder against his own when he swayed and laughed and Tobias was warmed as much by the room, the atmosphere, as he was by the startling man beside him.

( _Nathaniel_ , Nate had told him, later, between breaths, between sighs, pressing him back into the doorframe to his bedroom - _my name, it’s- Nathaniel_ )

They'd talked between acts, leant against that rickety rail. 

They’d walked together afterwards, up the promenade and the emptying streets. They’d walked all the way to the harbor and the three short steps to Nate’s apartment door, cheeks rosy with the wine and the warmth of the night and there’d been a promise in the graze of their hands, their held glances, the pause on the threshold.

 _I could make us tea_ , Nate had asked in french, his voice as quiet as the distant, ebbing tide. _If you’d care to join me._

The offer had been as gentle as it had been earnest. His hand against the door - its flaking paint, ocean stripped; those warm eyes on his, shadowed in the moonlight and still faintly smiling. Patient. Remarkable. Unafraid. 

Tobias had felt light, in the salt-slicked air. He'd felt _bold_ , his heart beating in his breast and he'd gained the step and then another and then another, Nate opening the door and stepping before him and after two stories of winding stairs he'd found himself in the Nate's small rooms, and there was no longer any distance between them.

-

(They’re knee to knee at Nate's small kitchen table, whispering like children, like confidants.

 _You're here alone_. It's not a question. There’s only one pair of boots by the door, one overcoat; one glass on a desk that overlooks the sea.

Nate’s head tilts towards his, his long hair falling loose from its tie, and it looks so soft in the warmth of the samovar embers, the light of the single candle.

_Not always. I have a friend. We travel together, she and I. Not this time, though._

_A friend?_

A curve of a smile, gaze flicking to his in the dark. _She is also french. Or she was, once._

 _She didn’t come with you to Odessa._ Again, not a question.

_No, not this time._

They’re sat close enough to each other that Tobias can smell the subtle notes of his cologne, something bright, delicately citrus against the smouldering samovar coals. His lips are sweetened, coaxed red by the heat of the tea and Nate smiles now around the cup, long fingers curled around it, elegant and unmarked. What life had he led, to have such hands?

Perhaps he was married, Tobias thinks. Did they have an agreement, he and this friend? An arrangement? Nate wears rings on his thumb and his forefinger of his opposite hands, simple ones, burnished silver, well cared for. His ring finger is bare.

Tobias had almost married, once.

A shift of movement- Nate places his cup back down, curled towards it and the lone candle, and he is bronzed by the flickering light, beautiful and startlingly intimate, in this box room, shadows and burnished gold.

 _But yes_ , Nate says, into the quiet, little more than a breath. _I have been - I was - alone._

Tobias’ voice is caught in his throat. He swallows, working to voice the question, his cup abandoned in its saucer: _Was?_

Nate's hand has slipped to the table, so close their fingers could brush. He licks his lips before he speaks, a flash of red tongue sliding over the soft fullness of his bottom lip and when Tobias draws his eyes back up, he finds Nate’s gaze on his, soft and dark.

_...I hope so. )_

-

Tobias calls him Danya, Nila, in the privacy of their rooms, the moments they share together, the poorly penned letters he leaves at the door.

Nate calls him _Tobi_ and _mon tendre and_ other names in languages he doesn’t know, and Tobias finds that he doesn’t mind that, not at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is a quote from Pushkin's 'Night' (more on that later)
> 
> Part of [deltangam](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542269/chapters/67359454); part 1 originally posted there.
> 
> How Tobias and Nate met is a homage to N.P., presumed to be Nika Polyakov, who shared his and his partner’s love story in the early 1900s via a moving letter. They met at the theatre. (here’s hoping the scholar whose wonderful articles I read for reference (in translation, my russian isn’t good enough anymore) never finds this story :) )  
> For those interested, the article / letter can be [found here](https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/odr/interview-with-ira-roldugina/) and [here](https://www.colta.ru/articles/specials/17030-nikakie-zakony-nikakie-uslovnosti-ne-ubedyat-nas-chto-nashi-postupki-prestupny-i-nenormalny).
> 
> The (first) Odessa theatre burnt down in 1873. It was known as just the City Theatre, at first. 
> 
> Pushkin wrote of it, as it was, in Eugine Onegin. An old, well-worn copy of the Russian play is tucked away in Nate’s library on one of the upper shelves, as is a little book of poetry (more of that in part 2)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pushkin. It must be. Nate was entranced by him;
> 
> He was in mourning, he'd said the second time they'd met, when Tobias had asked about the black kerchief he'd folded in his pocket. 
> 
> _Our great poet is dead._

The afternoon air is close in the room he's rented above the harbour. The warm treacle of humidity weighs the air, making it dull, thick. Still. No breeze slips through the cracked window. There's no telling flutter of curtain. Storm weather, the gather before the thread snaps. 

Nate traces kisses along his shoulder, murmuring russian in the spaces between. 

Poetry, Tobias thinks. It's too quick, though, and _too much_ for him to gather himself enough to parse it. 

“ _Danya_ ,” he says (in his mother tongue), his voice caught between a laugh and a bitten off sigh. “ _I cannot understand you like this.”_

His hands find Nate’s shoulders and push, lightly, and Nate relents, rising only so high as to rest on his elbows. His hair is undone and a mess around his face, strands catching on the sweat-damp of his cheeks and falling about his eyes. He grins down at him, unrepentant.

He is beautiful and unreal like this; brilliant and shimmering, sunlight on endless sea.

 _“My voice disturbs,”_ Nate says again, the languid way he speaks the poetry he loves, _“the silence of the night. All yearning,'_ his gaze drops to his mouth _, “and all tenderness, for you.”_

He dips to place an open mouthed kiss to his collarbone, his stubble rasping and Tobi sighs, so easily overcome. Nate noses lazily back to the hollow of his throat, the line of his neck.

 _"...my murmuring verses flow,”_ he’s still whispering poetry between kisses. _“And overflow, with love for you."_

Pushkin. It must be. Nate was entranced by him; he was in mourning, he'd said the second time they'd met, when Tobias had asked about the black kerchief he'd folded in his pocket. _Our great poet is dead_.

(He'd not heard of him, before Nate. What poetry he'd read had been an everyman's edition he'd picked up in Calais, second hand at a market off the docks.)

"Pushkin?" he asks, aloud this time, and feels Nate smile.

“Yes. Our great, dead poet.”

_Of course._

“You, and your poetry-” Nate drifts back down, leaving tender kisses, drawing a mark against his ribs. Tobias hisses and then he laughs, more an exhale- “and your _mouth_.”

“My mouth?” 

Nate is looking up at him, in that way he knows drives Tobias to distraction. He’s settled heavy against him, heated hands spread against his sides and curving around his waist, and Tobias laughs and sinks his hands into Nate’s wild head of hair, the warm curls soft against his wrists.

“Yes,” Tobias says. "You are… ridiculous."

Nate grins, a flash of teeth. His grip flexes and he rasps his chin against the sensitive skin of Tobias’ stomach, those warm hands holding him in place when he squirms. “Should I stop, then?”

Tobias pulls lightly at Nate’s hair in reprimand. " _No_." 

The way Nate moves so easily with the action, lashes lowered, lips parted, makes him _burn_.

“Good.” Nate turns enough to kiss the inside of Tobias’ wrist, his mouth and his words whispering against it. “I do not want to stop.”

Tobias' breath catches - he says things like this _so easily_ \- but Nate is too far for him to drag him back up. He slips out of his grasp, dipping to place more kisses. The poem resumes:

 _“And bright, your eyes upon me-”_ Nate's gaze flicks up, catches Tobias' - he snorts, _"in the darkness glow,"_ more kisses, languid; his touch blazes down his side to his hip, devilish and knowing, _"and smile at me, and-”_

Tobias sighs again, sighs with want, with patience and impatience. His heartbeat races and thuds where they’re pressed together, too warm and burning with gilt _desire_. 

“Danya-”

But Nate will take his time. He finishes his stanzas, impressing the words upon him, with voice, fingertips. Tongue.

_“I can hear-"_

"Danya," Tobias tries again, tugging at his broad shoulders, and he feels Nate's smile, against the slope of his abdomen. 

_"-your voice,”_ he finishes, and Tobias makes a show of groaning, his hands sinking into his hair again.

“ _Nate,"_ he says, and he feels Nate make a sound, soft and swallowed, his hand smoothing over his stomach, spreading beneath his ribs.

 _“My love,"_ he says, looking up at last. The blankets have long since been dragged down, tangled around their hips, their legs. It takes Tobias a moment to realise Nate’s still reciting. _"My love. I love you.”_ Nate speaks theatrically, a parody of Tobias’ solemnity and Tobias tips his head back into the pillow and laughs. He gets another kiss, for that. Just above the dip of his navel. _“I am yours!”_

“I know that," Tobias grouses, so helplessly fond. "There’s no need for poetry.”

Nate just looks at him and Tobias is lost, he is overcome, in the intensity of that dark-eyed gaze, so open and freely tender. 

He draws his fingers back to the curve of Nate’s cheek, clumsily smoothing his hair behind his ears. Something he doesn’t know if he can fit back together shivers to pieces inside of him as Nate turns into his open palm, pressing a kiss there.

Nate takes a breath, his inhale curling around Tobias’ wrist.

“Всё,” Nate says quietly, before he switches back to french. "That's it." A curve of a smile, less convincing this time. "I am yours." He’d been aiming for theatrical, for teasing, Tobias thinks, but he doesn’t quite succeed.

For a man with so many words, Nate will rarely just ask for what he wants, Tobias has found. Especially in this.

Words don’t come to Tobias as easily. But he will find them if he needs to (especially when they’re true).

He brings his other hand to Nate’s cheek, cradling Nate’s face between his palms. He is so warm and he is _his_ , so freely given. And so is Tobias, and so he'll tell him with his simple words, in his mother tongue. He will not allow any doubt, or shame, here. 

“I am also yours, Danya.”

Nate blinks, and then smiles. His eyes glitter in the light, the last of the sun escaping the cloud and pouring amber and rose through the curtains and setting the two of them alight, amidst the spinning dust motes and the glowing thickness of the air.

And then his Danya moves back up and pins him to the sheets, firm and heavy and golden. He steals kiss after kiss until they gasp for breath, and then he takes more, his fingers threading through his own and anchoring him to the bed, this breath, this life.

When the rain comes (spattering against the open window, dripping from the sill) they lay together in the growing darkness, their fingers still interlocked.

Tobias marvels over the fit of their hands. The simplicity and ease of this - skin to skin, flesh to flesh.

His own hands are rough. Working hands, rope burned - a boyhood spent on ships between ports, carting cargo. He has the easy strength required for the labour with penmanship as poor as his spelling, learned late, but he has a book he carries with him, a collection of essays that he reads between voyages, while keeping his uncle’s books.

Nate, Nathaniel, was once a naval officer. He'd spent years on the ocean and yet fought in no wars, and was an officer no longer. He was an Englishman - again, past tense, and that's something Tobias could understand, that unmooring of homeland, the shorn roots.

There are pasts and homes left behind them, buried in silt and sand. There’s a future before them, extending up like Richelieu's steps: sandstone, sea. Sky.

Nate, as he is now, is a clerk - or maybe a scholar. He walks the city with a book under his arm; leaves papers strewn across his desk, and talks of arrangements and negotiations in languages that Tobias cannot always understand, but that he will always explain to him, without judgement, a light in his eyes.

Tobias is as he always has been (and yet, somehow, he is also _more)._

He knows this city. He knows these trading routes, these ports and their petty bureaucracy, the tax laws and import rules and the officials, too, by name and by drink choice. He barters and negotiates in the languages he has but also the ones that he’s learning, and then they talk, he and his Nate, into the dark of the night over their books and their papers.

Tobias and Nathaniel. Tobi, and Danya. That is what they are, here; all else lays at Richelieu’s feet, abandoned on the shore.

They drink cups of tea and walk the small space of Nate’s apartment, talking and then no longer talking, until the last of the candle stubs burn out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get to see a bit of actual Odessa! :D 
> 
> Pushkin's poem: ‘night’ (1823), translated by Antony Wood.  
> Richelieu's steps = Potemkin steps.  
> ...couldn't remember whether it's это всё or just всё so please do correct me / give me a better option asjhgbashdg  
> fyi I did reread the final chapter of 'Do I compel You' when writing this *coughs similarities and parallels coughs*
> 
> I love this style but it is a more difficult one to write in ahahaha. Why do I keep doing this to myself? And I'll be honest, I know where this story is going/have written most of it, but I'm not sure what it is, or if it's good? But it's still worth telling, I think, so.


End file.
